


Viewer Discretion Advised

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge 2015, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3998371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is checking the house surveillance is working.  Yes. Yes, it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viewer Discretion Advised

Stiles moans, staring at the live feed. He had never anticipated this when he'd been asked by Derek to set the pack home up with surveillance in the public areas of the new Hale house. Chris has gripped Peter by the back of the neck, has dragged him over to the table -- the kitchen table you fuckers, we fucking eat on that -- and dragged his pants down without a word of warning.

Or maybe, he reconsiders given Peter's complete compliance with the shove that divests him of pants and underwear -- boxers, of course, Stiles is just surprised it's not Derek's underarmour, he's tried hard enough to steal everything else from Derek -- maybe he really should have expected this.

Peter's pants are hobbling him around the ankles, which means that although he kicks out at Chris -- for a moment he wonders whether he should try to stop them, and then sanity rears its head: Peter could stop this any moment if he really wanted to -- it mostly serves to take both legs out from under him and he lands with an audible oof of pain on the table's edge, belly first. Chris is already pushing Peter's ass cheeks apart, pressing a dry finger into Peter's ass. Chris pulls out, shoves his fingers into his own mouth, sucks, his cheeks hollowing out for a long distracting moment. It looks filthy and hot as hell.

Also, very much like Chris knows where the camera is.

Oh crap.

They're staging it. They know they're being filmed. He just needs to work out if they know he's watching, or whether or not they are trying to traumatise Derek or make their very own porn tape. Or all of the above. Oh god. He bites his fist. Does he really wanna know? No. No. He does not. He does not care in the -- Chris slides two spit slick fingers into Peter, who winces visibly. Oh god.

Stiles winces in sympathy. He's tried this, gone too fast, too eager, ignored what everyone said about lube because who had time for all that mess? Well, it turns out, people who like sitting down, or getting something bigger than a single finger up them totally have time for lube. At least, until they level up into some sort of self-lubing masterzone, which he's pretty sure isn't a real thing outside of AO3 and Wattpad.

Chris produces lube a second later, squirts it into Peter's crack, and chuckles as Peter gives a full body flinch at the cold.

The two fingers slide out, dip into the lube, slide in, over and over, feeding it into Peter's ass until his hole is loose and glistening and wrapped around four fingers.

Really, he's gotta admire their positioning. This isn't a one off. There are no coincidences, and somewhere, he'd bet his left nut there's a small hoard of gay porn starring his two least favourite adults. It really shouldn't be this hot. He's gone from biting his knuckles to sucking on his fingers, and he's fully aware that he's going to have to do something about his jeans, but he can't bring himself to move.

And then Chris unzips and sinks his dick in, taking his own sweet time filling Peter's ass. Time Peter doesn't appear to appreciate judging by the epic bitch face he's pulling, half turned around despite Chris' grip on his hips, and the half snarled,"Get on with it, princess." 

Stiles wipes his mouth with the back his hand, breathing hard. That's it. That's it. Oh god. He unzips, and pulls his dick out. There's a spare tshirt in his bag, he's pretty sure, and he hastily strips off the one he's wearing, he doesn't want to stink the place up any more than strictly necessary. With a little luck they'll think he was just bored and horny, not watching them.

Chris' back muscles and ass muscles bunch and flex as he shoves in, pulls out. He's felt the hard strength of Chris' hand on his arm, shoving him around, and it didn't turn him on back then -- too terrified -- but he's not sure that's going to continue to be true if there's ever a next time. After this there had better never be a next time. He's dismally certain that if Chris Argent starts manhandling him after this, he's going to pop a fear boner, it's just a fact of life now, like Derek's stubble being too soft and delicious er dangerous to touch and Lydia's laser glare being too fierce to ignore.

Chris is holding Peter down, driving long hard thrusts in, fast in, slow out, letting the long drag of his cock drive Peter into a thrashing begging mess, his broad hands dark on the pale skin of Peter's hips. It looks fucking amazing, no pun intended, and Stiles clenches, wishes he had something with him -- lube, a toy, anything to fill up his emptiness. 

Maybe not anything: he's not going to try fingering himself in a surveillance booth on an office chair. Been there, done that, just gotten rid of the bruises all up his tailbone.

Peter's shoving back, pushing up at the apogee, and almost slumping with relief at perigee, relaxing with Chris fully inside. 

Chris picks up the pace abruptly, then thrusting sharply, once, twice, three times, and stops everything, moving, breathing, thrusting, his head back, eyes closed, sinews straining, his cock fully lodged inside Peter's ass. Peter's face is as ecstatic as Chris' if less effortful, a smug smile crawling onto his lips as two of them come at almost the same moment, and it only takes the barest touch of Stiles' hand on his own dick and he's coming too into his crumpled up tshirt.

He watches, dazed, not really processing, as Chris leans down and tugs Peter up, pulls him close and eases them both down onto one of the kitchen chairs. Chris is still mostly dressed, Peter mostly naked, and he's pretty sure that Chris is still balls deep into Peter's ass hole. He groans at the thought, his back arching a little, a dribble more come escaping his cock. 

Almost on autopilot he cleans himself up -- avoiding letting his Dad ever feel the need to have a 'difficult' conversation (and not the one about werewolf boyfriends, which he's pretty sure his father hasn't yet seen coming) has meant that it's become engrained habit to clear the evidence up to the point of plausible deniability, which is all his Dad has ever asked of him. He hooks his backpack over with one foot, drags his clean tee out and stuffs the other one away, and zips it shut.

As an afterthought, he grabs the last fifteen minutes of footage, and clears the evidence log showing the download. He's pretty sure Chris won't know and Peter won't care.

Sure, Peter will know Stiles did *something* in here, if only from the smell. But then, Stiles grins to himself, if Peter guesses, Peter will know Stiles knows that Peter knows that Stiles know that they know.

And that... might be fun to watch play out.

He emails himself the footage, and heads home.


End file.
